My Friend and Colleague
by pebbles66
Summary: A set of short ficlets focusing on the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. From various points of view.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _This will be another series of drabbles and other short fics which focus on the relationship between Holmes and Watson. I hope everyone will enjoy them_.

This one is in Holmes' point of view.

* * *

Pretending

He moved all his belongings alone, carrying boxes up seventeen steps to the sitting-room and then seventeen more to his bedroom. He helped rearrange the furniture, moving chairs and tables till we both were satisfied. He takes daily walks, returning breathless and rosy-cheeked.

But I have seen his hand tremble passing the teapot. I have heard his jaunty step change to a slow limp when he thinks I am not aware. I have observed exhaustion on his face, pain in his eyes, and I deduce that flushed cheeks mean fever.

He is not as well as he pretends.


	2. Chapter 2

Sleepless

Sherlock Holmes was working late. Puzzling over some small problem, he had taken to pacing the sitting room, smoking like a steam engine and muttering quietly to himself.

A sudden noise from upstairs captured his attention and he stepped soundlessly to the door, listening.

The sound was coming from the doctor's room upstairs, and Holmes quickly realized that the doctor was having another nightmare, crying out softly in his sleep.

Holmes turned away, wondering what haunted his new friend so.

When Watson appeared the next morning, grey with fatigue, Holmes said nothing, but determined to solve this problem as well.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: This has turned out to be a 221B. Thanks for reading and reviewing!_

_

* * *

_

The Needle's Mark

He thinks I am sleeping. I sense more than hear my companion rise and go to his desk drawer. Keeping my eyes shut, being perfectly still, I hear the drawer open, and I know what will happen next. He is reaching for the cocaine.

Stealthily he removes the morocco case from the drawer, sinking into his chair with a sigh of anticipation. This has happened so many times that I do not need to see to know what the next steps will be.

I hear the snap of the tourniquet band, the clink of glass, and the slight clatter of the bottle against the needle as he fills the hypodermic with the vile liquid.

In my minds eye, I can see him pumping his fist to make the veins stand out. I can see him choose one; see the needle slide into his pale pockmarked skin, and if I listen very closely, I can hear the barely-audible sound of the plunger as it deposits the drug home.

Finally I hear the bottles and needle being put away, the closing of the case, the tourniquet coming off, and the sigh of intense pleasure as once again the deadly venom begins to destroy my friend from the inside out.

And I do not open my eyes. It has happened too many times before.


	4. Chapter 4

The Softer Emotions

Sherlock Holmes stood for a moment looking down at his sleeping friend before quietly returning his violin to its case.

The doctor was clearly exhausted, and Holmes wondered briefly if he should insist that Watson stay home and rest tonight.

He knew without doubt that Watson would vehemently refuse, on the grounds that Holmes might need his assistance, not to mention his revolver. But Holmes also knew there was an ulterior motive. Watson wanted to see their client again.

Of all the women they'd met in their work, this was the one who'd managed to capture the doctor's heart. Watson was fair smitten with Miss Morstan, and from what Holmes could see, the young lady shared these sentiments.

The detective smiled sadly as he considered where these feelings might lead. Just because he didn't fully understand the softer emotions did not mean he didn't recognize them when he saw them.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Nightmares

Shivering, John Watson stumbled down the stairs in the darkness. The memories awakened by tonight's nightmares had left him with a distinct chill and a distinct need.

He crossed to his desk, lighting only one lamp in an effort to not awaken Holmes. His flatmate was a light sleeper, and he had no wish for company. This ritual required solitude.

Seizing a journal, he paused, gathering his thoughts, and then began to write, haltingly at first, then more rapidly as words and thoughts flowed from his pen like water released from a dam. As he wrote, the pain and fear from this dream slipped away, released from his weary mind to the paper before him and thus restrained for a time.

It was a familiar ritual, and effective. Still other dreams remained imprisoned in the recesses of his mind, as yet unvisited. Another night's unrest would bring about their release.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: _This was partially inspired by KCS and PGF's_ That Whiter Host, _in which Alfie tells Watson that he's a "wonderful chap_. _This seems like something Watson might do... Also by my mom, a former reading teacher, who felt that a person could overcome any obstacle, as long as he could read._

* * *

Dr. Watson's second profession

Most of the Irregulars could not read and write; indeed many of them had never been to school. Sherlock Holmes had come to terms with this some time before, but to Dr.Watson this was an unspeakable travesty, and he determined to do what he could about it.

Holmes started in disbelief the first time he came into the sitting room to find Watson surrounded by a group of boys, patiently teaching them their letters and sounds. But within a few weeks, many of the boys had mastered the alphabet and grasped the beginnings of reading.

A few weeks later, Wiggins was reading out loud from a primer Watson had located. He blushed at the praise the doctor heaped upon him, grinning in pride at his accomplishment. Holmes had to admire Watson's perseverance in helping the boys, giving them a chance to escape a life trapped on the streets of London.

* * *

_Thanks again for reading and reviewing!_


	7. Chapter 7

Reality

The moment I reached the 'Englischer Hof, and saw Mr. Steiler's unconcerned face, I knew I had been tricked. He answered my panicked questions, and my heart dropped down into my feet as I realized there was no ill Englishwoman. Immediately I turned around and raced back up the mountain, shouting for him to notify the police.

I had been tired when I reached the village, but now all fatigue left me as I ran at top speed, wild thoughts spinning out of control in my mind. By the time I reached the spot I left him I was limping severely and completely out of breath. But Holmes was not there.

I shouted for him, but moments later, I found his alpenstock and cigarette case. And then I saw the note. My heart again sinking within me, I read the last words from my dearest friend. I searched distractedly, finding only the signs of a scuffle and two sets of footprints leading to the edge. It was obvious what had happened. They'd gone over the falls.

I sank to the ground in disbelief, barely registering that the police had arrived and were assessing the situation. Grief clouding my mind, I prayed this wasn't true, but in my heart I knew it was so. Holmes was gone and he wasn't coming back.

* * *

_A/N: This is out of sequence, but I've got several short fics that I'd like to post and sort of get out of my system so I can think about something else. I hope everyone will enjoy them_.


	8. Chapter 8

After the Falls

John Watson had passed through these last days in a blur of confusion and misery. A grey haze seemed to surround him, obscuring the world from his eyes as surely as the London fog obscured the presence of the city. He'd made the necessary arrangements, sent the required telegrams, answered the endless questions, and now, he was on the journey home.

He'd traveled from Meiringen in near silence, muffled from the world by the weight of his grief and the agony of his loss. Crossing the channel, and on the train, he'd sat very still, alone in his compartment, his mind carefully blank, as the water and the miles rolled away beneath him.

He didn't move and tried not to think at all, until the train finally pulled into Paddington station, and he stepped out, away from the pain and disbelief, into the warmth and comfort of his wife's arms.

* * *

_A/N: Poor Watson! Seriously, there's a lot of angst coming..._


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Another angsty one... Someone asked in a review why I don't write a story. Well, I have written a couple, but I really enjoy the challenge of writing a short, concise fic of 100 to 150 words. It's challenging to try to get a wealth of information and emotion across in just a few words; I have to be very selective with words, and that makes it fun for me. Anyway, here's another one..._

* * *

Loss

Watson startled awake to find himself weeping. He sighed wearily, rising and dressing quietly to avoid waking his sleeping wife. Passing swiftly through the silent house, he entered his consulting room and sat down with his journal. He sat there for some time, letting his thoughts overwhelm him, feeling the malignancy of pain grow as he remembered times past, places he'd been and people he'd loved whom he'd never see again. His parents, his comrades in Afghanistan, his brother, and now Holmes. Loss, like an evil presence, lodged behind his breastbone.

The torment of memories increased till he thought his heart would burst, but tonight, the words wouldn't come. The familiar ritual to expel the pain was proving impossible. Finally he surrendered, laying aside his pen and snatching up his hat and gloves to walk the dark streets of London. Some demons could not be exorcised with pen and paper.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: The angst-fest marches on... These next two go together._

* * *

Aftershocks: Part 1

Lestrade turned as Gregson came up behind him, holding a yellow envelope. "Telegram for you, Inspector", he said, passing it over.

Lestrade carelessly slit it open, leaning back in his chair to read. He scanned down to the bottom to see whom it was from. "Ah, it's from Dr. Watson," he said. "Wonder when he and Mr. Holmes are…", he trailed off, feeling his jaw drop in shock.

"What is it, Lestrade?" asked Bradstreet. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"

"I haven't seen one," Lestrade murmured. "But I think I've just heard from one. Sherlock Holmes is dead."


	11. Chapter 11

Aftershocks: Part 2

The room was dead quiet for a moment, and then the inevitable questions started:

"Dead…, how?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That can't be…"

"Are you sure that's from Watson?"

Lestrade cleared his throat and held his hand up for silence. "It says here that there was some sort of an accident and that Mr. Holmes was killed. There's nothing more. We'll just have to hear the rest when the doctor comes back."

The inspectors and constables moved slowly away, shaking their heads and muttering in disbelief at the horrible news.

Bradstreet moved nearer to Lestrade, putting a large hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "What did you mean about hearing from a ghost?" he asked softly.

Lestrade met his eyes with a strange mixture of fear and sorrow. "You know what great friends those two were" he answered grimly. "I don't know if Dr. Watson can survive this."


	12. Chapter 12

At Portsmouth

John Watson stood at the rail of the Orontes, watching the shore as the ship came into Portsmouth. All the negative thoughts he'd stubbornly suppressed rose to the front of his mind. What was he to do now? Shivering in the chill air, he thought of all his hopes and dreams, plans for a career as an Army surgeon, traveling the world, helping the wounded. Funny how quickly things can change. A single moment, a split second in time, had taken it all away.

Still, given an over-abundance of time to think, he'd come to the conclusion that, bad as his situation seemed, things could have been much worse.

True, he had no job, little money, and fewer prospects. His health and nerves were shattered, he was in almost-constant pain, and his barely-healed shoulder and leg severely limited his ability to remedy these situations. But during these weeks aboard ship he'd met other injured veterans, men who'd lost limbs due to amputation, lost their vision to flash burns, lost hearing from the percussion of gun and canon fire. And sadly, he'd met men who had lost their sanity to the horrors of war.

He rubbed at his eyes wearily, wiping away the sting of sea-spray and the disappointment of a life that had changed in the wake of a single bullet.


	13. Chapter 13

Home

Watson trudged slowly upstairs to the sitting room. Blast, it had been a long day, he was dead tired, and at the moment couldn't name a part of him that didn't hurt. Peering into the room apprehensively, he was relieved to find it empty, but with a warm fire blazing. He didn't feel up to facing anyone right now. Crossing to his armchair, he threw himself down with a weary sigh. He wanted only a moments' peace and quiet, and then bed.

He startled awake to find himself warmly covered, a steaming cup of tea and a tumbler of brandy at his elbow. Apparently Mrs. Hudson or Holmes had seen him come in and deduced that he needed tending. He dashed a measure of brandy into the tea and sipped gratefully at the hot beverage. The ache slowly fading from his limbs, he decided it was good to be home.


	14. Chapter 14

Maiwand

Blazing heat. Searing thirst. Creeping exhaustion. Glaring sunlight he could see behind closed eyes. But worst was the sound. Sound surrounded him; gunfire and cannon shots, explosions, shouting, screams of pain, and that horrible sound when a bullet made impact with a human body.

The medic looked around, staring with dry eyes at the carnage around him. So much blood, so much pain, so much death. But he had a job to do. He stumbled over to the soldier on the ground nearby, turning him over to find sightless eyes staring heavenwards. _Heaven_, he thought grimly. _No, this is hell_.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: This was inspired by our Sunday School teacher talking today about Jonathan defending his friend David from his father, Saul. Our teacher talked about times he's defended a friend when others are saying bad things about him. And so this jumped into my head. Hope you all like it_.

* * *

A Man's Honour

The day was cold and rainy, and as such I had determined to stay in by the fire, as my leg and shoulder were quite painful in that type of weather. Holmes had left some time earlier to attend to some errands, and I was on the point of dozing over my book when the door to our shared sitting room suddenly burst open, bouncing off the wall and very nearly knocking a hole into the plaster.

I winced as Sherlock Holmes came barging into the room, slamming the door behind him with a mighty crash that shook the entire house. He stalked angrily to the fireplace without a word to me, where he stood warming himself for a moment, before he threw himself into his armchair with enough vehemence to cause the springs under him to groan with the impact.

He sat there, drumming his fingers on the chair's arm, his normally pale face flushed with fury, and muttering under his breath so that I couldn't make out his words. I did hear "of all the nerve", "infernal idiot", and "how dare he?" growled in a slightly louder tone, as he sprang back up and began to pace the room with long strides.

"Holmes", I ventured finally, wondering if perhaps I should vacate the room due to his extreme temper. "What in the world has happened to put you in such a frightful mood?"

Holmes turned to face me then, and a bit of his ferociousness faded as he looked at my concerned face. I noted with some trepidation that he looked quite pleased with himself in addition to the anger he had been displaying. He took a deep, calming breath and visibly gathered himself before proceeding.

"Watson, I have just come across the most idiotic, annoying, infuriating man it has ever been my misfortune to meet. It took all my patience to avoid pounding him into the pavement where he stood." This made me grin a little as I knew that all Holmes' patience could be contained in a teaspoon on the best of days. I could see the fury still evident in his eyes and decided that the infuriating man had indeed been lucky if he was still able to walk after an encounter with Holmes.

"Well, what was he doing to make him the most infuriating man you've ever met?" I asked reasonably, laying down my book with a sigh of resignation. I knew that Holmes would continue to fume slowly until he had told me all the details of his afternoon's adventures. My book could wait.

"He was expounding upon matters with which he has absolutely no familiarity, and was belittling the character of a man with whom he has no acquaintance. I couldn't stand there and let a man's character be maligned in such a way, of course." Holmes replied with a self-righteous smirk.

"Oh, no, of course not", I answered, barely managing to hide a small smile of my own. "But are you certain his remarks weren't deserved?"

"Of course they weren't deserved, Watson!" he answered, aghast that I should even think such a thing. "The man in question is of the highest moral fiber, very conscientious and extremely attentive in his work. The idiot was just disgruntled over what he considered mistreatment; a matter of no importance at all." Holmes flushed again as he perceived my unconvinced look.

"The idiot was spouting the most libelous claptrap you've ever heard, Watson. He kept insisting that this man had no business being in practice, that he was completely incompetent, and that anyone who would choose to consult this man was a fool of the first order. I questioned the idiot, of course, and he admitted that he'd been quite drunk when he consulted the man, and that he'd been summarily asked to leave." Holmes paused for breath, his face still visibly flushed with indignation. I wondered at "the idiot's" – for that appeared to be the appellation Holmes had placed upon him – lack of self-preservation awareness, but nodded for Holmes to continue.

"Then, after assaulting the man's professional behavior, the idiot started in on his moral character. And that, my dear Watson, was the final straw." Holmes sat back in his chair with a look of deep satisfaction that made me a little uneasy. It was then that I noticed his bleeding knuckles.

"Holmes, you didn't punch the man!" I blurted out incredulously, jumping up to look at his injured hand. "You can't just go around assaulting people for their views, no matter how abhorrent they are to you!"

"Whyever not?" he asked reasonably. "The idiot admitted he didn't even know the man in question; he'd only met him the one time. He was maligning a man he didn't know, a man with whom I am well acquainted. And everything he said was a complete and utter falsehood. There were other people present, Watson. They were hearing all that nonsense. It could have damaged the man's reputation and his practice. It was a matter of a man's honour. As I said, I could not in good conscience let the idiot continue to spout such foolishness."

"So you punched him" I said flatly, shaking my head resignedly.

"Yes, I punched him" Holmes replied, as though this was the most logical answer to any problem.

I had fetched my medical bag as he said these words, and now proceeded to silently clean, disinfect, and lightly bandage his knuckles. I knew there was nothing I could say at this point to change his mind. Holmes felt that his temper and his actions had been justified, and I would not be able to change this opinion. He said nothing as I treated his injury, preferring to watch my actions with a self-satisfied look.

Finishing my task, I went back to my chair, settling down with a weary sigh. Holmes stretched his legs out comfortably to the fire and reached down to the floor to retrieve this morning's paper which he had thrown down when he left the house earlier.

Relieved that his retelling of events appeared to have purged his evil mood, I returned to my book, and for several minutes there was a companionable silence in the sitting room. Then a sudden thought occurred to me and I looked up at him.

"Holmes, whom was this person you were defending? Someone you know well, you said?"

Sherlock Holmes looked at me then with a sly smile. "It was you, my dear Watson. It was you." Then shaking out the papers in front of him, he returned to his reading, as I continued to sit in bemused silence.


	16. Chapter 16

_**A/N: KCS requested a sequel to A Man's Honour, and this is what happened. Reviews always greatly appreciated!**_

_A man has honor if he holds himself to an ideal of conduct though it is inconvenient, unprofitable, and dangerous to do so. – Walter Lippmann_

A Man's Honour, part 2

Inspector Lestrade sat at his desk, looking forlornly at the mounds of paperwork surrounding him. It had been a very long day, but although his shift had ended over two hours previously, he couldn't go home till he'd ploughed his way through at least part of this mess.

Sighing in resignation, Lestrade picked up the top report in the shortest pile. He began to flip through the pages absently. It was very difficult to concentrate this evening. In addition to his being exhausted and hungry, there was some sort of ruckus happening outside his office. He couldn't really tell what was happening, but he could hear several raised voices, including those of PC Anderson, and possibly Gregson, too. _Gregson_ – well, Lestrade was sure that he could handle whatever was happening out there.

Lestrade returned to the report in his hands. _The shop-keeper, finding that the front door_ _to his shop had been jimmied, immediately called for_… _What in the world is going on_ _out there_? If anything, the voices outside his office had gotten even louder. Lestrade sat still for a moment, listening, but couldn't make out any specific words. _Somebody is_ _mighty hot under the collar_, he thought. _Oh well, let Gregson handle it_.

The inspector attempted to read further in the report, but when he found himself re-reading the first paragraph for the third time with absolutely no comprehension of what he'd just read, he flung the papers down in disgust. It was absolutely impossible for him to work in these circumstances. He would just have to go out there and see what was going on for himself. Then maybe he could finally get through that blasted report and go home for the evening.

Lestrade flung his office door open with a crash, and stalked angrily out into the waiting area, fully intending to give Gregson, Anderson, and anybody else within range a piece of his mind. Instead, he stopped short in surprise to find Gregson – _Gregson?!_ – red-faced, backed into a corner by a large florid man in a high temper. The man was gesticulating wildly and yelling loudly enough to be heard several streets away, and Lestrade noted that his nose was swollen and bleeding profusely through the handkerchief he had clutched to it. PC Anderson and a few other constables were standing by, ready to jump in to help Gregson should it look as though the situation called for their aid.

From what the large man was yelling, apparently PC Anderson had been taking this man's statement, when he became unaccountably irate and verbally abusive to the constable. Inspector Gregson had intervened, whereupon the man turned his anger upon him.

Gregson met Lestrade's shocked eyes, and the big inspector's face flushed even redder. Lestrade looked a question at him: _What the devil is going on?_ Gregson shrugged slightly, as if to say: _I_ _have no idea_, and turned his attention back to the man in front of him. "Now Mr. Carter", he said, placing his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture, "if you'll just calm down and tell me quietly what happened, I'm sure that we can get this all sorted out."

Mr. Carter, for his part, did not look like he was much interested in getting things "sorted out." Indeed, he looked more as though he would like very much to tear someone limb from limb.

"I have been assaulted, Inspector, assaulted – in a public place, I might add – and I want to file a report against the man who broke my nose! I want him arrested this instant!" Carter's voice rose in intensity with his words, till those around him winced and stepped back a few paces to protect their hearing. At this point he was standing so close to Gregson that Lestrade wondered the man hadn't been permanently deafened. He decided it was time for cooler heads to prevail.

"Mr. Carter" he interjected smoothly, drawing the big man's attention to him for the first time. "My name is Inspector Lestrade. Now just come over here and sit down, and tell me calmly and concisely exactly what happened." _Good heavens, I sound just like_ _Sherlock Holmes_, Lestrade thought to himself, pulling out a chair for their complainant. Carter turned to look at him and Gregson managed to edge out of the corner while the big man was distracted.

Mr. Carter glanced blearily around him, noting the crowd of constables and inspectors watching, and took the offered chair grudgingly. He sat there a moment, his large hands clenching and unclenching as he struggled to bring himself back under control.

"Now, Mr. Carter", said Lestrade easily, "Who assaulted you, and why?" Lestrade handed the man another handkerchief, as his own was soaked with blood.

"It was Sherlock Holmes!" Carter answered quickly, much to his listener's consternation.

"What do you mean, it was Sherlock Holmes?" asked Gregson incredulously, interjecting himself into the melee again. "Sherlock Holmes assaulted you?" Gregson noted that Lestrade was standing near the big man and unobtrusively sniffing for the scent of alcohol. He raised his eyebrows at Lestrade questioningly, and the smaller inspector nodded slightly in response.

"He punched me is what he did! I think he broke my nose!" cried Mr. Carter in indignation. "I want you to arrest him!" he said, looking up at Gregson fiercely.

Inspector Gregson shook his head, disbelieving what he'd been told. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes punched you, sir? Why would he punch you?"

At this, Mr. Carter's manner suddenly changed. He dropped his eyes to the floor, avoiding meeting the inspector's gaze, and squirmed a little in his chair. "Well", he said cagily, "there was no reason for it, not really. I was just talking. It's not as if the man was even there…"

"Mr. Carter", interrupted Lestrade, looking at Gregson questioningly. Gregson shook his head slightly in response. "Why don't you tell us what happened, from the beginning." _What did this idiot do to provoke Mr._ _Holmes?_ he wondered. The fellow might be rude, arrogant and insensitive, but he didn't usually go around using someone as a human punching bag without a reason.

"Yes, well, I was at Paddington Station, and I was just having a little chat with a friend of mine, you see." Mr. Carter was speaking very calmly now, but he was twisting Lestrade's handkerchief nervously in his hands. His hands were trembling slightly. The inspectors both noted this behavior and nodded for him to continue.

"My friend, Mr. James Ownbey, has not been feeling well lately, and he asked me if I could recommend a doctor in the area. So we began to talk about …, erm, various doctors in the neighbourhood, and, um… that's when Sherlock Holmes walked up and punched me in the nose!" Carter held up his bloodied handkerchief, and gestured at his swollen nose as evidence.

"I see", said Lestrade, with a knowing look at Gregson, beginning to have an inkling what might have caused Mr. Holmes' unusual behavior. "And which doctors were you talking about, Mr. Carter?" He looked Carter square in the eyes with these words, although he thought he knew what the answer would be.

"Um…, it was just one doctor, really" said Mr. Carter very quietly. His manner had completely changed now. The belligerent, gesticulating, angry man had disappeared and been replaced with a quieter, meeker man, who suddenly didn't seem so eager to file a report after all.

"I see", repeated Lestrade. "And who exactly is the doctor in question, sir?" Considering the circumstances, Lestrade was fairly certain what the answer would be, but he wanted to be sure, and besides, PC Anderson was surreptitiously taking notes, which might be useful if the report was filed.

"We were speaking of Dr. John Watson, Inspector," replied the large man, with a trace of his previous belligerent attitude. He glared between the two inspectors with bleary eyes, slighting swaying in his chair.

"Dr. Watson, was it?" Lestrade queried. "Mmmhmm." He let this noise speak for him for a moment as he studied Carter, sizing the man up. "You are aware of course, that Dr. Watson is a great friend of Mr. Sherlock Holmes'."

"Um…, yes, I am aware of that," said Carter sarcastically. "Most people do know that, Inspector."

"Quite so. And what exactly were you saying about Dr. Watson, Mr. Carter?" Lestrade again pinned his sharp gaze on the larger man, who began to squirm uncomfortably again.

"Well, I was just telling Mr. Ownbey about the time I consulted with Dr. Watson," he grumbled.

"I see", repeated Lestrade again. "You consulted Dr. Watson, did you? And what happened during that consultation, Mr. Carter?"

"Nothing is what happened! Nothing! The man is incompetent, Inspector. He wouldn't even speak to me. He just walked into the consulting room, took one look at me, and got all high and mighty. He asked me to leave! Wouldn't even examine me!" Carter said hotly. "Well, I won't stand for that, sir, no I won't! And I told my friend so!"

"And for what reason were you consulting Dr. Watson, Mr. Carter?" asked Lestrade, looking again to Gregson, who was trying to hold back a smirk.

"I hadn't been feeling well, that's all," Carter replied, again losing his belligerence and becoming cagey.

"Not feeling well in what way, if you don't mind me asking?" Lestrade was beginning to enjoy this interview more and more, as he decided he liked Carter less and less. He was beginning to wish Holmes had done more than just punch the man in the nose.

"Well, just a little headachy, nauseous, dizzy. Queasy-like. Unsteady on my feet. You know, just not feeling well." Carter admitted grumpily.

"In fact, Mr. Carter, were you not intoxicated when you consulted Dr. Watson?" Lestrade pounced on the attack.

"Oh, no, no, no. Not me. Hardly ever touch the stuff. No, no, no!" Carter denied the accusation vehemently, but both Gregson and Lestrade had noted the tell-tale tremors in his hands, and Lestrade had definitely smelled liquor on his breath earlier.

"You know what I believe, Mr. Carter? I believe you were indeed intoxicated when you consulted Dr. Watson, that you began to make a scene of some sort, and the doctor was well within his rights to ask you to leave." Lestrade pressed his advantage, standing over Carter and glaring at him. "And then you were angry with him and tried to slander his name – in public I believe you said – when Mr. Holmes happened to hear you."

"That Watson fellow shouldn't be practicing medicine! He doesn't know what he's doing! I wasn't drunk, a little tipsy maybe, no more'n I am now." Gregson sent Lestrade another look at that. _If this man is tipsy now, I'd hate to see him falling-down drunk_ he thought.

"And I wasn't going to hurt that little maid at his office. I was just telling her what a pretty little thing she was, and asking her to join me for a drink." The man's face began to redden again as his anger and indignation grew. "I wasn't going to _make_ her do anything. And that Watson fellow just over-reacted and threw me out, the idiot! Calls himself a doctor! I didn't feel well! And he wouldn't even look at me after that! What kind of doctor won't even examine a paying patient? He's just a damn-fool cripple, that's what he is, and that's what I was telling Ownbey! And then that Holmes, he just up and punched me! I think he broke my nose…" the man broke off this tirade as he noted that both Gregson and Lestrade were looking at him censoriously.

Lestrade and Gregson looked at each other and then back at the man, who had suddenly gone quiet again. Then together they stood up and Carter stood also.

"So are you going to make that report?" he asked. "Sherlock Holmes punched me in the nose, for no reason, and I want you to…" he broke off again as both Gregson and Lestrade began to shake their heads.

"Mr. Carter," began Gregson seriously. "You got off lucky. I'm surprised Mr. Holmes didn't beat you into the ground for all that. You can't just go around slandering Dr. Watson's character in public – you're lucky _he_ hasn't pressed charges against _you_! He could have had you up on charges of assaulting the maid, drunk and disorderly conduct, not to mention slander."

"But he hasn't," continued Gregson. "You would have gotten off scot-free if Mr. Holmes hadn't been nearby. It's just too bad for you that he heard what you said and took matters into his own hands. Dr. Watson is Mr. Holmes' friend, and most any criminal or police constable in the city could tell you that Mr. Holmes would do just about anything for the doctor. You were lucky."

"You were," Lestrade confirmed. "We're not going to file that report, Mr. Carter. It'd never hold up. Mr. Holmes was defending his friend, and it sounds like you deserved whatever you got." The little inspector held up his hand as Carter began to protest.

"And I'll give you some advice. Most of London already knows this, but I'll spell it out for you." Lestrade looked Carter in the eye with full seriousness. "Don't pick on Dr. Watson. If Sherlock Holmes finds out about it, you'll be sorry. Next time you might not get off so easy."

All the bluster seemed to go out of Carter then, as he realized that he wasn't going to get anywhere with these particular inspectors. He continued to mutter under his breath, weaving a little still as Gregson and Lestrade escorted him out to the stoop, hailed him a cab, and saw him safely into it.

The two inspectors watched as he rode away and then walked back inside together.

"Idiot," said Gregson concisely. Lestrade nodded in agreement as they returned to the waiting area, where they found PC Anderson tearing up his notes and the half-written report. He grinned at them as he unceremoniously dumped the scraps of paper in the trash receptacle next to the door. Gregson, still shaking his head over the incident, went back to his office, while the rest of the watching officers straggled back to their desks and paperwork.

Inspector Lestrade turned to his own office with a sigh. _Well,_ he thought, _that was an interesting diversion_, but he still had to get through some of this paperwork. Heaving a half-stifled moan, he shut the door, sat back down behind the desk, and returned to his reports.


	17. Chapter 17

Reunion

Mycroft had wired me upon the death of Mary Watson, warning that Watson had been much affected, but his terse message had few details and little information. Trusting that bereavement had not changed my Boswell I returned to London after the Adair murder ready to renew our partnership. But the telegram had done nothing to prepare me for that first glimpse of my old friend outside the inquest.

Gone was my hale, confident biographer, replaced by a frail man worn with over-work and grief, looking much older than his years. My shock at seeing him so changed quite distracted me, but seized by a sudden whim, I managed to knock into him, dropping my books in the process. He helped to recover them, as I'd hoped and I took the opportunity to study him more closely. His eyes were blank and I turned away afraid he'd see through my disguise. I needn't have worried; he mumbled an apology and walked away without looking at me.

That first encounter should have told me that my sudden reappearance might be rather ill-received. Even so, I continued with my original plan, never able to resist a touch of the dramatic. I had reason to rue that tendency as I sprang forward to catch my astonished friend as he slid down the wall in bewilderment.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Sorry, this is very out of order. But I wanted to get it in here somewhere. Please forgive my butchering of canon timelines!

* * *

A Scandal Averted

"You must not interfere, Watson," he insisted. "No matter what you hear or see. Do you understand?"

I kept that promise, though it took all my self-control to not jump to his aid, even when the blackguard struck him down and he fell swooning to the street.

But his plan was successful, and the hiding place revealed, just as he'd said it would be. After the denouement when he joined me safely in the cab, wiping the red ink from his forehead, I realized that Sherlock Holmes' acting abilities had taken in not only Irene Adler, but me as well.


	19. Chapter 19

Revelation

Upon their first meeting, Sherlock Holmes realized Dr. John Watson was a soldier by his military bearing. He knew with a glance that his new acquaintance had been in Afghanistan by the deeply tanned color of his face, contrasted with paler skin on his wrists.

He surmised the doctor had been injured when he perceived his unnaturally stiff arm and the awkward way he moved and held his body.

He inferred his fellow lodger had been seriously ill and had lost a deal of weight when he happened upon the doctor clad only in shirtsleeves and too-large trousers early one morning.

Holmes deduced the man was still recovering when he noted the doctor's inability to venture out during inclement weather, and the fact that even the slightest exertion left him trembling and over-tired.

He concluded that Dr. Watson was in constant pain when he watched him limping after a long walk in Regent's Park.

And he theorized the doctor was haunted by ghosts of battle weeks later when his sleep was disturbed night after night by the sound of the doctor's nightmare-induced screaming in the dark.

But the true, unmistakable extent of the doctor's hardships during the war was made clear when he saw the livid, puckered scars on Watson's shoulder and leg during an afternoon's visit to the Turkish bath.


	20. Chapter 20

Anniversary

Dr. Watson left the house early on July 27th, before his fellow-lodger had risen for the day. Neither Mrs. Hudson nor Holmes found anything odd about this; the doctor had been working at St. Bart's for several weeks, in the hope that he would be accepted back into the army at summer's end. When he returned home well past two in the morning on July 28th, flushed and reeking of tobacco and cheap whiskey, reeling from a combination of alcohol, exhaustion, and pain, Sherlock Holmes took one look at him and wordlessly offered his assistance as the doctor struggled up the stairs to his room.

Watson never spoke as he slowly undressed and collapsed into his bed. Holmes discreetly laid a hand on the doctor's forehead, unsure what to expect, and finding no evidence of fever, decided that the doctor's condition was the result of overwork, an uncharacteristic lapse in sobriety, and perhaps bad judgment. The detective pulled the chamber pot out from under the doctor's bed, deeming it might be needed in the night, poured a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table, and quietly shut the door behind him.

It was not until dawn that the significance of the previous day's date revealed itself to him.

The Battle of Maiwand had occurred exactly one year before.

* * *

_The idea that Watson wanted to go back into the army in 1881 comes from rabidsamfan's wonderful story A Decided Genius, which can be found at this site._


	21. Chapter 21

For months after that fateful spring in 1891, the London constables on the beat kept a close watch on the practice in Kensington. It was well known around the Yard that not all Professor Moriarty's men had been captured in the deceased detective's trap and the entire force considered it likely that these men would seek vengeance for the loss of their master.

Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson, however, kept an eye on the doctor's house for a different reason. Worried about his health, both physical and emotional, they watched from a distance, dogging the doctor's steps as he made his rounds and went about his daily business.

They noted his bowed back and increased limp in those first weeks, and took it upon themselves to visit frequently, their company seeming to assuage some of his silent grief. Finally, after enlisting his aid in a few minor cases, and then encouraging his work as a police surgeon, they felt that the doctor was beginning to recover. It was with some relief that they noted his countenance brighten and his apparent exhaustion lessen as the months went on, until nearly two years later when tragedy unaccountably struck the poor man yet again. It was with heavy hearts that they learned that Mary Watson had died unexpectedly, along with the unborn child she bore.


	22. Chapter 22

_I am lost without my Boswell_.

Sherlock Holmes had uttered those words often enough, and he'd meant them each time. There was a quiet steadiness, a faithful reliability, about Watson that made him an invaluable partner and a calming influence to a consulting detective with a mercurial temperament.

He'd never considered how much Watson relied on him in turn. Yet today, lunging forward to prevent his friend cracking his head while sliding down the wall, Holmes realized anew that he'd severely underestimated the devastating effect his own loss had had on the health, and the psyche, of his erstwhile biographer.


End file.
